


Whose Name was John

by teapig



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Happy Ending, M/M, Trans Male Character, Trans Terror Week, trans irving, tw for institutional transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 19:15:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21361318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teapig/pseuds/teapig
Summary: After everything, John hadn't ever expected to set foot in a church again and feel wanted. But after quite some time, it seems he might just have another shot.TW for brief but ugly institutional transphobia/abuse - stay safe friends!For Trans Terror Week 2019 and the prompt "there is wonder here".
Relationships: Lt John Irving/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33
Collections: Trans Terror Week





	Whose Name was John

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends! Here's a brief attempt for trans terror week - as a nb lesbian who also happens to be a Christian and offspring of multiple clergy, you could indeed say this is a lil bit of a projection, but it's also a thing that's very close to my heart so here we go! I promise you though, it's not all heavy and angst for once - after all, we're meant to be celebrating trans lives dammit, so that's what I'll do!
> 
> In case you missed the others, final TW for institutional violence - not all churches are Like That, but unfortunately some of us don't start out in the most accepting of faith spaces, and that includes this version of John :/

After everything that had happened, John had never thought he’d set foot in a church again. It had been over a decade, after all, since he’d stood in a doorway like this, framed by dark wooden doors and thousand-year old mottled stone that still shone bright in the sunlight, muffling the birdsong and the distant roar of traffic. It had been even longer since he’d done this and felt safe there; like he belonged and was wanted.

It had been one of the last barbs his family had spat at him, proclaiming that no good person would want him if they knew what he was, let alone a church. That if he showed his face there again without repenting then there would be hell to pay. That there was no place for him there anymore.  Sometimes when he shut his eyes at night, he could still see the bright colours of his home church slinking out of the darkness, the angry voices creeping back into his mind as he re-lived it all over again. In hindsight, he sometimes wondered if he should’ve known better than to trust the people there with anything more important than the weather as of late, or what he was doing for the church fayre, or what he’d thought of Mrs So-and-So’s victoria sponge at the last cake sale. But he’d been younger then, had still trusted that the priest really meant the words that he recited week by week.  _ “For God hates nothing he has made,” _ echoed over and over in his mind, giving him the courage to approach him in a quiet moment after the service. 

Fingers twisting nervously in his hair, he’d waited patiently, trying not to focus on how his shoes were digging into his heels, nor the way his dress seemed to clutch on to every curve that he didn’t want to see, the slight draught stirring his skirt and making his leg muscles clench away uncomfortably from the feeling. _‘It won’t be long now,’ _he told himself_, ‘and then I’ll never have to do all this again.’ _Once the priest seemed less busy, he’d stepped forward and asked if he might make a request, stuttering it out with a sheepish smile. “I, uh… I wonder if you might call me John instead?” The rest of it was lost, blocked from his memory as moments later, his parents were being summoned over by an outraged crowd, their faces completely disfigured after years of pitying smiles that had just assumed his awkwardness came from a place of modesty, or bashfulness about his figure. It was the reaction he’d dreaded the most, but never dreamed could become reality; his whole community, all he’d ever known, dropping away like maggots as they realised exactly who and what he was. 

Sometimes the memories would fade away there, the voices ringing and dying out as he rolled back into Solomon’s arms and buried his face in the warmth of his broad chest. Other times, it would be Solomon rousing him, silencing the sickening crack of the belt mid-air before it could really get started. Once he’d caught his breath, Solomon would usually vanish into the darkness of their flat for a moment, before returning with hot tea, thick with honey. Sleep still clinging to his curls and smile, he’d wrap John’s hands around the mug and press a kiss to John’s cheek, lips brushing his soft beard as he got them settled again. 

It was moments like that which reminded John most of his life before this, remembering clearly the figure of his younger self poring over his bible in the dead of the night that he found his name.  _ “There was a man sent from God, whose name was John”,  _ he’d whispered along, the familiar words worn under his tongue, eyes flickering further down the page and settling on that one verse.  _ “The voice of one crying out in the wilderness,”  _ had always stuck with him, even as he had fought to pull his life back together after losing everything. Five years down the line, he’d met Solomon; five more, and his own call to ministry had returned, stronger than ever.   
For him, he knew, entering the church would be much like John the Baptist crying out in the wilderness; sometimes bleak and difficult, and riddled with dangers and people who hated him before he’d opened his mouth. But if he made that first move, then maybe, just maybe, he could make life less hellish for even one of those who came after him in bodies and voices and pronouns that didn’t quite fit right. And if he could save them from at least some of that, it would be enough for him.

It didn’t stop his surprise, however, when he’d received a call back from one of a string of interviews as he looked for a church to call his own. Upon applying to the most recent one, he’d been strict with himself, using the interview as "just practice" and staunchly refusing to get his hopes up, even as his heart yearned to never leave the church again. Unlike his first church, this one wasn’t dark and thickly decorated with gold and intricate stained glass and old aristocrats’ wealth. This one was full of light, the large windows letting it stream in up to the very rafters, (and likely disturbing the bats, as the churchwarden guiding him had said.) Despite the church having stood here for over a millennium, to John it still felt fresh and open, not bogged down in the intricacies of who God loves, and why he loves them more than the rest. For once, he felt at home, and that night he found himself praying that whoever took that job would keep that sense alive in the little church on the hill.

A few days later, however, there was a message waiting for him on the answer machine. John listened curiously as the church warden’s thick burr rattled through his own name and number as he hadn’t heard done in years. He smiled ruefully as he heard about how many brilliant applicants there had been, and almost hung up before the second foot fell. But it never did. “We’d like to offer you the place, Reverend,” it continued. “There were some right good ‘uns in this batch, but the one we really wanted is you.”

And so here he was, stood outside the church that  _ did _ want him, despite everything, waiting for the man who’d wanted him just as he was this whole time. The man who’d held his hand through countless doctor’s appointments, who’d changed his dressings after his surgery, who’d shielded him from his own family when they’d seen them in the street and wanted to rekindle the same old fight. Solomon had had his fill of fighting, and had no time for anyone who didn’t respect his partner for everything that he was. And here he was now, hands in his pockets as he basked in the sun and stumped up from the car to meet John so that he could look around the church that he’d soon be the vicar’s husband of, and the vicarage that would soon be their new home. 

The smile on Solomon’s face told John everything he needed to once they stepped inside, bumping their shoulders together with a quiet murmur of “I told you it was wonderful.” The warmth in Solomon’s gaze was a reply all of itself, even before a broad arm slipped around John’s waist and pulled him in for a kiss to his forehead. “‘S just your kinda place, love,” he paused to sneak in another kiss, and to see John blush as he added “‘nd you’re only gonna make it even better.”

And then it was onto the house, and the garden, beehives still buzzing at the bottom, and empty chicken coops waiting to be filled with life and sound. “You’ll have no excuses for not baking now, not with all those eggs around!” John teased as they stepped back into the house, earning himself a squeeze as they ambled upstairs. Taking in the bedroom and bathroom as they went, both felt their hearts clench at the sight of a room still decorated for a small child, and the thought of one day being able to bring children of their own to live here, surrounded by good people and the love that they needed to flourish. 

The warden had told them that there was one last surprise in the attic if they could get up there, and sure enough Solomon spotted a small staircase leading a little further upwards. Sunlight flooded the room, shining on a solid desk that stood in front of a window, and rewarded their search with a view to die for - a silver river twisting through the greenery, and the church tower standing proud in the skyline. John’s mouth dropped open at the sight, drinking it all in as he felt Solomon’s arms snaking around his waist, and his chin rest on his shoulder. “Looks like we’ll be bringing your painting gear up here then, hm?” He murmured, feeling John’s grin growing by the moment.    


“It’s just so… so perfect,” John breathed, unable to tear his eyes away for a moment, “Everything here is just a wonder, really.” He rambled on, but Solomon was struggling to focus, his mind playing that word “wonder” over and over in his mind. He snapped back with a hum as John nervously asked if he thought he could be happy here. Gently, he shifted so that he could turn John to face him, and cupped his face in one broad hand.    


“Of course I could!” He reassured him, stroking over his cheek and colouring slightly as he continued, “‘nd even if it didn’t already fit us like a glove made just for us, I still would be, as long as you’re with me.” He paused, moving to rest his hand over John’s heart, feeling its rapid beat through his shirt, “‘cause no matter what, there is still wonder here. Even now, even after everything that’s happened, you’re still here, still carrying on and making the world so much better for it, ‘nd God, how  _ couldn’t _ I be happy when I’ve got someone like you to love 'nd be proud of?” He might’ve continued, had he not have been pulled down by John’s soft arms and kissed soundly, his hands at the nape of his neck and his smile pressed against his lips.

And, for a moment then, even if they hadn’t even really thought about moving yet, or decorating, or even accepted the offer, John truly felt as if he was finally,  _ finally _ home.

**Author's Note:**

> You made it to the end! Congrats!!! In case anyone's curious, the bible references in this are all from John 1 (more famous for "in the beginning was the word") - it's a passage that I find myself using a lot in my own ChallengeTM of making my uni chapel a much more LGBT+ friendly space, and so here it is!  
(also shout out to @hungry-hobbits for kicking my arse into doing this, ilysm!)


End file.
